The Situationship of Neptune

Salacia cooks in the nude. I see her from across the way. Pasta and meatballs at least three times a week, half lamb, half pork, ajika, paprika and oregano. She’s petite, a D-Cup, vigorous thighs, and requires a three-legged stool to reach above the freezer where she keeps that special olive oil that tastes like bananas. Why doesn’t she use the Greek oil next to the stove? She stretches with great effort, but with surprising grace and often she accidentally opens the freezer. Perhaps it’s no accident because when it swings her out into the middle of the kitchen, she arches her back flexing her leg into an “O” above her head and snatches the pasta spoon with her toes while bearing the olive oil in the palm of her hand. The other neighbors say she was an aerialist with Cirque du Soleil, makes sense. Her man, 18-inch neck, 45 waist, walks into the kitchen with a thick book held against his trunk. He waits a minute as if assessing a class of returning faces that needed to fail better. I’m not sure why he walks around with such a large book. I imagine because the apartment is awash with them, and if he puts it down, he might get lost at sea. He sets the book on top of the pasta pot and chooses from his collection of forks. He eats his little pint of ice cream with a trident, reads a page, licks the tines, reads a page, looks up searching for something to spear. I’m guessing the books are on Marxist theory because the covers are always red and black with those vintage fonts that were popular in the Soviet era for propaganda posters.